


Meravas

by AuditoryCheesecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Crisis of Faith, Cultural Differences, Demands not of the Qun, Demands of the Qun, Grief/Mourning, Iron Bull-centric, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Something like a Character Study, The Storm Coast as a Reoccurring Antagonistic Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: “My faith guides me,” she tells the Bull when he asks. “It always has. The Maker gives me direction, a purpose. Is that so hard to understand?”It's always raining on the Storm Coast, and the Iron Bull can't always see the ocean for the waves.





	

Reverence isn’t something Bull’s been particularly familiar with. Under the Qun, the highest honor is purpose. An item, or a person, is respected because it is useful, and to use it is to show respect. There are relics and there are rituals of use-- the Beresaads’ swords, the Tome of Koslun, ceremonial vitaar, the entirety of the priesthood’s roles-- and they are usually treated with solemnity, but _reverence_ , the way the basra do it, with Chantries and candles and shit? That’s new to him.

He’s not close enough with the right sort of people until he and his boys join the Inquisition. Then, when he’s suddenly given a base to return to, a large force that isn’t simply the rotating faces of rich employers and rival mercs, he begins to recognize it.

It’s easiest to see, at first, in the pilgrims who come to Haven, who kneel in the mud when Adaar passes by. Sometimes they reach out towards her, touch the edge of her cloak or the heel of her boot. Judging by her expression, it’s not comfortable to be an object of reverence. 

She shrugs when he asks about it. “They’re scared,” she says, in her relentlessly pragmatic way. “They need something to believe in.”

Cassandra brings a small wooden statue of Andraste when they travel together, and builds it a shrine after she sets up her tent. She whispers prayers and when she stands, she seems bolstered; her steps are slower but surer, her head higher, spine straighter. 

“My faith guides me,” she tells the Bull when he asks. “It always has. The Maker gives me direction, a purpose. Is that so hard to understand?”

_Purpose_ isn’t, but there’s a level underneath it that he can’t quite parse. A double cipher based off a code of which he knows only part. 

The Iron Bull watches and learns the rituals the people here observe. They are as disparate and varied as the people themselves, suited to the individual. There is no uniformity in the ways that they pray or pay obeisance, not even in what exactly they are praying to. But they each have their habits and their ways to worship.

He watches Dorian when they leave Haven buried behind them. Adaar finds them in the snow, and the Bull sees in Dorian’s face the same desperate hope that’s on the faces of the pilgrims. Dorian believes in all of it. He has to, for his own survival. He doesn’t sing with the others that night but he sits and listens, ringed fingers still and quick eyes bright. Bull, for reasons he examines less than briefly, sits and watches him.

 

They’re all busy, in Skyhold. When Bull’s not in the field with Adaar, he’s in the ring running drills, and when he’s not doing that, he’s helping with the reconstruction or running errands for Leliana outside the castle.

Like taking the boys to clear out Haven and round up stragglers. Now that’s a shit job. It’s obvious that someone has to do it, and he only takes volunteers, but they’re all tetchy and anxious as they lead the supply wagons back through the mountains.

“What d’you think, Chief?” Krem asks, reluctant to dismount as they reach the end of the visible road, their horses’ hooves resting at the edge of the fallen avalanche. The Chargers look to him.

Bull shields his eye and looks southeast, where Haven lies buried under a mountain’s worth of snow.

“I think we’ve got our work cut out for us. Hot cider on me when we get back to the castle.” They’ll need more than a hot drink, but it’s the best he’s got at the moment.

They dismount, pass out shovels and heavier gloves. There’s nothing like working with cold hands to make a bad task more awful. And it will be awful, especially for the members of the Inquisition proper who took his call for volunteers at face value. They’ve come looking for specific faces among the corpses Bull expects they’ll find. They’ll be focused, he thinks with his best attempt at dispassion, at least until they find who they’re looking for.

It’s a cold, slow day. They clear out most of the road, all the way to the front gates of Haven, before they break for a meal. Bull designates a team to set up a camp, since the sun is already beginning to sink. He didn’t think they’d have it all done in one day, but he’d hoped.

Behind the crushed walls, the stone Chantry stands solid. The broken trebuchets stick up out of the snow like masts from a shipwreck. 

Bull hates going back to a battlefield after the fighting’s done. There’s no sense of victory here, no glory or purpose. Just the still snow and the whistling cold wind and the emptiness. 

They find the bodies of the corrupted templars everywhere. Everything about them is twisted and wrong. The red in their veins stands out like fresh blood, though the skin around it is discolored and frozen by death and snow. The more red lyrium was in them when they died, the less human they look now, the less fear is etched into their faces to be preserved by the mountain that fell on them.

The gloves he brought are for these bodies as well. No one wants to touch them barehanded.

They burn the bodies before sunset. The ones they haven’t found yet can wait another day.

Lysette, one of the Inquisition's few templars, stands beside Bull and they watch the smoke spiral up into the darkening sky.

“Foolish bastards,” she growls at one point, low enough that perhaps Bull wasn’t meant to hear. Louder, she says, “What do you think of them, Qunari? These men and women who pledged themselves to Corypheus and lost themselves before they lost their lives?”

“I think they chose the wrong side.” Bull answers her mildly, letting her go where she’s going. No sense picking a fight when she’s so close to this.

Her hands tremble. “But how many of them truly chose?” She fumbles a vial of lyrium out of her pack, taps it against her thigh to settle the contents. It glows faintly, casting eerie blue shadows across her face as she raises it to her lips.

Bull waits until she puts it away again, lighter by a sip. “You’re not--”

“I knew some of them,” she says. “I trained under Knight-Captain Denam when I first joined the Templars. I could have been one of these.”

“But you’re not.” Bull’s seen enough survivor’s guilt not to judge any of it. Despite the lyrium, her hands are still shaking. “You made your choice.”

“I chose to dedicate my life to the Chantry, and now to the Inquisition. I am a tool, and I don’t often care who uses me.” She laughs bitterly. “At least I’m not a cobbler.”

They watch the fire longer.

“Did you choose to come here?” she asks Bull suddenly. “Is this where you saw your life going?”

Bull shrugs. “I go where I’m sent.”

“By the Qun.” Lysette nods. “Must be nice, having a clear purpose like that. No need to wonder if you’ve done the right thing.”

The flames cast strange shadows on the snow. “You think you made the wrong choice? Would you rather be on their side? On the fire?”

“Not _that_ choice.” She stares hard into the pyre. “Dying red or dying blue, it’s still the lyrium in the end for me.”

“Isn’t the Commander trying--”

She raises an eyebrow at Bull, bitter and wry. “Trying. It’s an experiment. It might not work. I plan on being useful as long as I can.”

“That’s sorta fatalistic, isn’t it?”

“Says the Qunari,” she counters.

“Oh, shit!” Bull grabs at his horns. “I’m a Qunari?”

It makes Lysette laugh, and she has a nice laugh, even though the cold and fatigue turn it into a cough partway through. 

“Come get warm,” he offers when she’s caught her breath. “My boys’ll have got the stew hot by now.”

The look she levels at him is suspicious, to say the least, but she follows him into the circle of the Chargers’ tents. They don’t fuck, they’re both too tired from pulling bodies out of the snow, but they press close together in the warmth of Bull’s bedroll. It’s good to know that there’s still warmth, still heartbeats and closeness despite the wind whistling outside.

Back at Skyhold, he briefly considers working Lysette into the Chargers. She’s isolated, one of the only Templars in the Inquisition who holds onto the title and not just the lyrium. She could use a friend.

But Dalish isn’t able to relax the entire time she’s at the table, and Skinner isn’t the only one puffed up in her defense. 

Lysette comes to his room, and he’s able to ease some of the easier aches-- the need for touch and closeness, the need to laugh-- but she doesn’t sit down with them again and she doesn’t knock on his door.

Asit tal eb.

 

He’s not surprised when Dorian sets himself up in the library at Skyhold, and he’s not surprised that Dorian has the occasional row with the head librarian. For all that she looks sweet and accommodating, Regina’s not someone to cross lightly. It’s amusing to watch them bicker about shelving systems and the precise number of copies of _Hard in Hightown_ that Skyhold needs. 

It’s better when he invites them both to the tavern. It takes two drinks and barely any encouragement from Bull before they’re leaning their heads together and discussing ancient book-binding methods, or something else technical and very specific. He can see why Josephine likes her job so much, if she gets this sort of satisfaction from getting people to work together.

Krem smirks over his tankard. “That was nice of you, Chief.”

“Am I not usually nice, Krem Puff?” Bull stretches an arm over the back of his chair.

“Last time you did something nice for a Vint you wound up hiring me.”

Maybe Dorian had been looking a little lonely and sad, but, “Nah, not even the same thing.”

“And you don’t go around picking up strays, sure.”

Bull rolls his eye and drinks. It’s really not the same.

 

They reach the Storm Coast late at night, after riding hard for days. He doesn’t even know why Adaar needs to make the trip herself. A jumped up mercenary group sounds like something that Leliana or even Cullen should be able to deal with quickly. 

They sleep in borrowed tents, and his socks still aren’t dry by the time they wake. Breakfast is salted meat and dried fish, and everyone’s in foul moods by the time they scrabble down the hill to the beach. 

Bull hates this beach. The stones are wet and slide under his feet. The waves are constant, pounding and ominous as they pick their way between beached ships with tattered sails. That the Templars would abandon them like this makes no sense. That no one’s scavenged them for wood or cloth makes no sense. Nothing seems to make any sense here.

Somewhere out across the sea is Seheron, is Par Vollen. There are soldiers and slaves and bakers dying, and Bull doesn’t even know if his death would benefit the Qun if it came today. At least the mages would make his pyre burn hot, even in the rain.

The grass is as treacherous to walk on as the stones are, and everytime Bull licks his lips he tastes salt. Even the caves, the only respite from the wind and rain, are awful. Inside them, water drips constantly, echoing. There are caves on the east coast of his homeland that sing when the wind passes through them. He’s never been there, but he has no reason not to believe the tales. No reason to think he never wants to go, because they must be better than this.

When the wind picks up, howling in from the sea and churning the water into spitting foam, they retreat among the steep hills and up a bluff. Adaar presses ever forward, weaving through the rocks with her compass in her hand, kicking scree down the cliff into a river. They trudge behind her, Bull and Sera glum, Dorian caustic.

He gives Sera a hand up onto some rocks, so she can scout for the damned Blades of Whatever, and Dorian huddles miserably in the shelter they provide. Bull wipes rain and sea-salt out of his eye and steadies Sera with his free hand on her calf.

“There!” She points south. “Just a couple more hills and we’re on top of ‘em.”

“Let’s wait ‘till the rain lets up.” Adaar rubs her arms. Bull’s not sure why she’s stopped wearing full sleeves and he sort of blames Dorian. Dorian sort of blames him.

Bull sets up a small shelter in the lee of the rocks-- just a wide piece of oiled leather, enough to keep the rain off but nothing more, and they hunker down under it. 

“You smell like wet sheep,” Dorian grumbles. It’s not directed at any of them in particular, or maybe it’s directed at all off them. He’s not exactly wrong.

“You look like a wet sheep,” he counters anyways, because it makes Sera snicker and Dorian wrinkle his nose and roll his eyes.

Bull looks on as Dorian pulls his damp robe closer in around his shoulders, tucks the bottom half over both legs like a blanket. His fingers tap against the wet rock as he watches the sky. “Would anyone mind terribly if I conjured a fire?” he asks after five minutes of uncomfortable shuffling.

“Smoke?” Adaar asks, brow furrowed. Bull can see her thoughts- warmth would be good, but not good enough to risk giving away their position.

Dorian raises an offended eyebrow. “What sort of charlatan do you take me for? I could roast a boar without a single puff of smoke.”

Adaar smiles indulgently, like they’re not all wet and tired and pissed off. “Go ahead.”

The fire blooms slowly in Dorian’s cupped palms, soft and yellow-green. “It can be hotter,” Dorian tells them as they all lean in towards the warmth. It’s a little creepy-- it doesn’t crackle like a woodfire, and flickers only a little in the wind. 

Adaar wraps her hands around Dorian’s, soaking up the heat. Cautiously, Sera extends her hands over the top of Dorian’s, well above the flame.

Bull meets Dorian’s gaze over their three pairs of hands, but keeps his own hands tucked under his arms.

“Too Vinty?” Dorian asks, like the war between their peoples is an old joke between the two of them. “I’m afraid I can’t make this look any more normal that I already have.”

Bull shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Dorian doesn’t believe him, and neither do Sera and Adaar, probably, but they’re not staring at him with annoyed furrows between their eyebrows.

He shrugs. Dorian sighs heavily. “If you lose the rest of your fingers to frostbite, don’t blame me.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the storm, though Adaar and Sera do. At some point, Dorian puts the fire on the ground, which is just… _so_ uncomfortable. It hovers an inch above the wet stone they’re crouching on and heats the entirety of their little shelter.

“I’m not saying I like it,” Sera mutters. “Just that it’s useful.”

“I’m so glad to have your approval,” Dorian says seriously. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. My life is now complete.”

Sera shoves him and they both laugh. Adaar smiles, and Bull feels strangely left out.

 

The leaves are beginning to change color, and he wakes up to the first hint of frost on the windows. It hasn’t even melted yet when Dorian seeks him out in his room. He’s dressed simply, in sturdy boots, and holding a bag like he’s about to go herb-gathering in the woods. It’s already full, hanging heavy on his shoulder.

“I was wondering,” Dorian says a little hesitantly, “if you’d accompany me on a small errand.”

Bull had been planning to run maneuvers with some of his newer hires in the afternoon. But there’s no reason Krem can’t do that on his own, if this even takes that long.

“It should be fairly quick,” Dorian continues, as if he’d read Bull’s thoughts. “I expect to be back before the kitchens finish serving breakfast.”

“You gonna tell me what it is?”

“It’s--” Dorian shifts uncomfortably in the doorway. “It’s a funerary service. For Gereon Alexius and his son.”

Bull pauses in buckling his brace. “And you want _me_ to go with you.”

“Tradition dictates the presence of a… witness,” Dorian says, carefully not meeting the Bull’s eye. “I could, of course, ask-- someone else.”

“Seems like the sort of thing Adaar would normally do.”

“Yes.” Dorian shrugs stiffly. “I understand her reasons, the politics and her personal history. I don’t-- I don’t _begrudge_ her justice--”

"You’re within your rights to,” Bull says. “She did--” 

__“Please don’t say it.” Dorian’s jaw tightens, and he grips hard at the strap of his bag. With all the effort he’s putting into keeping his voice steady, he’s forgotten to keep his shoulders straight. He slumps. “The point is, I can’t ask this of her. I don’t-- I don’t particularly want to.”_ _

__“Yeah.” He watches the slight tremor in Dorian’s hands, the way he’s scowling. “You need a hug, Vint?”_ _

__That startles a laugh out of him, though it’s shaky. “Maker, no. Just your morning.”_ _

__“Sure thing. I’ve got time.” The drills can wait an hour or two, no problem. They can wait till tomorrow, if they have to._ _

__Dorian nods, and holds the door open for him._ _

__Bull watches him as he leads the way down the stairs. “Where’re we going, then?”_ _

__“It’s just a little glen, close to the lake.” He’s got horses waiting for them at the gate, saddled and everything. “Cassandra offered me the chapel, but it doesn’t feel right. Not for this.”_ _

__Bull waits. Some people need to be guided or prodded into talking, some people get there on their own. Usually Dorian falls into the first category, but there’s a first time for everything._ _

__They pass a group of hunters on their way out, their horses quickly outpacing the small troupe laden with spears and shortbows. Bull wishes them luck. The kitchens have been producing an edible but bland potato stew for nearly a week running._ _

__When there’s space between them and the scouts, Dorian asks, strangely delicate, “what does the Qun teach about death?”_ _

__Bull glances at him, but he’s looking straight ahead between the ears of his horse. They reach the end of the causeway, and pass out of Skyhold’s strange temperate bubble. The wind is cold today, and Dorian pulls his cloak a little tighter._ _

__Bull knows that Funalis is coming soon. The Southerners seem to focus on Andraste’s sacrifice, but the Vints he’s known-- and watched, on Seheron-- tend to have a more personal connection to All Soul’s Day. “Under the Qun, death should be a sacrifice. Protecting the greater good. It’s not necessarily what you go out looking for, but when your time comes, you go. Magic or sword or fire, when it’s over it’s over.”_ _

__Dorian grimaces and sighs. “Surely not everyone dies in battle, though? Do you send a baker on a suicide mission if she contracts pneumonia? That seems… inefficient, to start.”_ _

__Bull shifts uncomfortably. “There are roles caring for those who need the aid, and easing the passing, when they need to-- it’s not something I should really talk about--”_ _

__“I’m an outsider, I understand.” Dorian’s smile is small and less reassuring than Bull thinks it’s meant to be. “I won’t pry. The secrets of Qunadar are sacrosanct.”_ _

__“It was never my role,” Bull says. He thinks about the farmers and bakers and tamassrans. He doesn’t know what they’re told about death. He only knows what they tell the soldiers. “The Qun’s more about the living, anyways. There’s no Maker and his bosom waiting for us, just… the end, I guess. The priests say prayers when the bodies are burnt. May our work honor the fallen, that sort of thing.”_ _

__“Admirable,” Dorian murmurs. “Cremation? No Nevarran necropolis for you, then?”_ _

__Bull shudders. “If I go down, burn me that night, under the stars. I won’t outstay my welcome, and I don’t want anyone else’s spirit in my body.”_ _

__They ride in silence for a time. “Does it bother you?” Dorian asks suddenly. Bull can barely hear him over the beat of the horses’ hooves. Dorian clears his throat. “The necromancy, I mean. What I do.”_ _

__Bull weighs the softness of Dorian’s tone against the stiffness in his shoulders. “It took some getting used to,” he admits. “All weird shit does.”_ _

“Don’t call it weird,” Dorian protests. “That sounds so _average_. It’s esoteric at the very least.” 

__“It’s pretty fucking creepy,” Bull agrees amicably. “But I trust you with it.”_ _

__Dorian turns in his saddle to stare, gloved hands holding his reins slack._ _

“You always let them go after a fight, and you never, uh, _use_ anyone we know. And you’ve got your--” He flips his hand when he can’t find the word in Trade. “Your vaarad-an. Your code. There are things you won’t let yourself do.” 

__Dorian keeps staring. His horse bobs its head. “I always aspire to ethical necromancy, it’s true,” he finally says. “But it’s still magic. Are you even allowed to trust a mage?”_ _

__“Special dispensation, from the Arishok himself,” Bull jokes, and Dorian shakes his head._ _

__They reach the bottom of the slope without much more conversation. Dorian points out a woodpecker somewhere off between the trees, but Bull’s eye isn’t quick enough to see it._ _

__Dorian dismounts and tethers his horse to a tree in a small clearing. Bull follows suit, watching him unpack his bag. He clears a space at the bottom of a tree, away from the horses, and lays a white cloth over the ground. He sets a silver cup at one side, pouring wine into it, and a wooden bowl on the other, with water. Pouring the contents of a small packet into another dish, Dorian puts that carefully in the middle of his setup. His movements are measured and efficient, like he’s done this many times._ _

__“About that trust thing we were talking about,” Bull says. “You’re not summoning a demon, are you?”_ _

__Dorian stands and brushes the dirt off his knees. “I don’t summon demons at all,” he says. “I deal with spirits of fallen mortals, not the inhabitants of the Fade.”_ _

__“Right. Are you going to explain what you’re doing?” Bull asks. “Or at least what I’m supposed to be doing?”_ _

__"I’m performing the rites of Funalis, in the capacity of Patriarch, and you’re standing in for the rest of the family.”_ _

__Bull scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Patriarch of what?”_ _

__“House Alexius.” Dorian turns back to the herbs. “With Felix’s passing, the family is no more. I’m sure there’s plenty of shuffling of property and titles back in the Magisterium, but I’m-- as Gereon’s apprentice I-- I was never formally _adopted_ , per se. But this is my responsibility, as the eldest remaining member of the family.”_ _

__Bull might be able to hear the woodpecker, way up the mountain, in the quiet. He feels like he should have known that, at least some part of it. Krem should have told him, or something._ _

__“I perform a variation of this ritual every year,” Dorian continues, voice almost conversational. “I use the spirits of the dead nearly every day, to fight beside me, to fuel my spells, to light my fires. It seems like the least I could do, to burn some herbs for them and a say a prayer, to ask that the Maker let them rest easily, when I’m not tugging about for my own ends.”_ _

__Bull, unsure of what to say, just nods._ _

__“And now it’s for Felix and Gereon as well.” Dorian brushes a speck of dirt off the cloth. “I feel selfish, but I hope this will… there is comfort in ritual. Not that observing the traditional rites is the same as forgiving myself for my role in their--” he shudders to a stop._ _

__“All right.” Bull goes to stand next to Dorian in front of the cloth. “What do we do first?”_ _

__Dorian looks at him sidelong, face tight. “You don’t need to do anything.”_ _

__“But I’m here, aren’t I? What do Vints consider respectful witnessing?”_ _

__“You don’t--” Dorian deflates. “Just sit with me, I suppose.”_ _

__“I can do that. Any chants to say?”_ _

__Dorian snorts. “It’s generally silent awe and reverent contemplation of the Maker’s power. In a Chantry, they’d sing hymns, but they’re mostly in Ancient Tevene.”_ _

__“I love contemplation,” Bull says, and Dorian scowls at him, but it’s a better expression than before. He lowers himself to kneel in front of the cloth again and takes off his gloves._ _

__“You don’t need to kneel,” he tells Bull. “Since you’re not an… adherent. Just sit in a way that’s comfortable. It won’t take long.”_ _

__Bull sits beside him, careful not to get his feet on the pristine white linen. Dorian lifts the bowl of water and dips his fingertips in, then holds it out to Bull. “Symbolic purification,” he says._ _

__Dorian talks him through the ritual, which is heavy on the symbolism-- the dish of herbs he burns with a touch of his finger represents the soul of the departed, the wine represents the living left behind, the cloth is something to do with the Maker, Dorian says it makes more sense with the traditional gold embroidery but he’d had to make do-- and then they sit silently._ _

__Bull listens to the wind in the branches above them, rattling the dry leaves. It’s cold in the shade of the trees, and he’s sitting on a patch of wet moss. Dorian kneels motionless beside him, head bowed and eyes closed. The forest, though brown and frosty and part-way to winter, is full of life. A squirrell edges cautiously down the tree in front of them before scampering away, a moth flutters by, the horses crop at the grass. Bull can hear the trickle of a stream at the far western side of his awareness, and listens to the birds stop their alarm calls and return to more conversational chirping as he and Dorian stop disturbing their day and sit still._ _

__Dorian’s hands lie quiet and flat on his thighs, unadorned. Bull knows he’d never simply forget his rings, so he wonders if it’s a part of the ritual, or just inconvenient to wear them under gloves. Without them, his hands seem softer, like they’re bare of more than just metal and gems. The black lacquer on his nails seems almost part of him._ _

__Bull sees his lips move, but Dorian talks soundlessly. If Bull tried, perhaps he could decipher what he’s saying, but he doesn’t want to intrude any more than he has. Even though Dorian invited him, Bull’s very aware that he’s witnessing something private, that he’s on the outside of this._ _

__Dorian’s softer than most people in the Inquisition give him credit for. He makes a big deal about the fire and flash, the magic and gold, but it’s not all that he is. Bull’s watched Dorian sit with injured soldiers and coax nervous children into laughter. He’s sweet, when he thinks he’s not being watched. Sweet and sad in almost equal measure, and equally hidden._ _

This knowledge isn’t entirely comfortable to have. Bull’s used to putting people into boxes. He’s used to knowing his relationship to everyone around him, to understanding how they see and interact with others, with him, with themselves. Until now, his relationships with Vints (minus Krem) have been straightforward. Soldiers killed because they’re fighting for the wrong side, Magisters killed extra hard because they _are_ the wrong side. But Dorian’s much more Magister than peditatus. 

__Bull doesn’t want to know that Magisters are people too, with guilt and regret, with favorite books and allergies to stripweed and smiles that make something in him--_ _

__Dorian’s shoulders quiver, and Bull turns toward him. His hands aren’t soft and still any more. His fingers are curled into fists, shaking just slightly. What Bull can see of his face is twisted into a grimace, his eyes squeezed tight and his teeth bared._ _

__Cautiously, Bull touches his shoulder, and Dorian’s muscles tense under his palm. He pats him gently. His shirt is soft._ _

__“What are you doing?” Dorian asks, hesitant._ _

__Bull takes his hand away. “Comforting you. Is it not working?”_ _

__“It’s a little odd,” Dorian says. “But I appreciate the thought?”_ _

__Bull pats him again._ _

__“It gets stranger the longer you go,” he tells Bull, and pulls in a long breath. “I think wine will work better.”_ _

__“I’ll buy you some,” Bull says. Dorian doesn’t exactly smile at him, but he touches Bull’s hand for a moment, and that feels sort of the same._ _

__And he does, that night, when they’re back in the tavern with the rest of the Chargers and Sera. Sera’s itching to be back out in the field, but the Boss is taking Varric with her until her ankle’s all healed up. She fell out of a tree, and Dorian’s never going to let her live it down._ _

__He’s laughing again, like he hadn’t just said goodbye to his friend and his mentor all over a few hours ago. Bull’s not sure he could do that, even if he somehow wound up in their Chantry, praying to Andraste and the Maker. When someone’s dead, they’re dead. He remembers the day Vasaad died, and he mourns him, but he doesn’t dredge up the pain like that._ _

__Maybe it’s a human thing, or a necromancer thing. Maybe it’s just a Dorian thing, to hold onto blame like that, and not use it at all._ _

__Bull sees Cole up in the rafters, and thinks hard about nothing._ _

__That doesn’t last, of course, but it lasts long enough for the kid to vanish, and for Jenine to show up at his elbow with two cups of ale and a smile._ _

__They talk for a while-- about her sister’s kid, about the newest recruits, even a bit about the Wardens. Jen’s cousin joined up at the start of Fifth Blight, voluntarily, she insists. Bull tells her that the Wardens are designed to survive shit, and doesn’t tell her about the way the Ben-Hassrath have been prodding him for information, or about Adaar’s worries and Hawke’s news._ _

__He feels weirdly guilty about that, like he’s lied to her. It’s the right thing to say, though. He doesn’t want to make her cry or worry about her cousin more than she already does. He stays in the tavern after she leaves, even though she invites him with her._ _

__He goes back to his boys with an empty mug for them to fill. Sera, her bad ankle propped up on Dalish’s thigh, gives him a squinty frown. “He’s faffed off while you were yapping,” she says._ _

__“Who?” Bull asks, even though there’s probably only one person in the Inquisition who “faffs” anywhere._ _

__“He went alone,” Dalish chimes in, because she knows that he knows that. “You could probably catch him in his room. If you brought him something to drink he might even be happy to see you.”_ _

__Sera waves him closer. “You should do it,” she says seriously. “He’s all doom and gloom tonight. More’n usual, since he was acting like everything was shiny.”_ _

__“Maybe he left because he wants to sleep? Most people do that, you know.” Bull sits next to her with a sigh, and Sera rolls her eyes._ _

__“Maybe you’re stupid,” she grumbles, but she leaves it at that._ _

__Dorian seems no worse for wear the next morning. He nods at Bull as they cross paths in the courtyard, Bull heading down to the stables, Dorian on his way towards the forge, holding a damaged staff blade._ _

__Bull pauses, wanting to say something, not sure exactly what. Dorian continues on, apparently oblivious._ _

__“Solitary, silent, singled out.” Cole appears at Bull’s elbow. “Sometimes, he just wants someone to listen to him.”_ _

__Bull can guess who he means. He doesn’t want to know about Dorian’s hurts-- no, he does want to. But he doesn’t want Cole as a translator._ _

__“We sat and watched the night end. Dead things walk quicker in the dark. Dreams are dimmer and deeper when you’re alone.”_ _

__“That’s great, kid.” Bull starts walking again. He knows Cole will follow him if he’s not done talking._ _

__“There is a nest, near and dear and sweet. He thinks there is only so much kindness, only so many hours to listen. He is a cuckoo's egg and will grow too big. There are others who need it more than him, deserve it more, give more and take less. Every time he lands, the branch breaks under his weight.”_ _

__“I didn’t follow that one. You’re trying to help, I think.” He does think that. Cole matches him stride for stride. “But it’s too early for that many metaphors. Varric’s the one you want to talk to if you’re in that sort of mood.”_ _

__“Varric looks at eggs and sees either stones or seeds. He talks when he should listen and writes when he should talk.”_ _

__“Right. I should have thought of that.”_ _

__“You want to help people too,” Cole says. He sounds frustrated. “You listen and you hear them and you know the right things to say. I thought you would want to know that you could help here, too.”_ _

__“Kid, if Dorian wants my help with anything, he knows how to ask. And he might not appreciate you asking for him.”_ _

__Cole seems to consider this. “Yes, The Iron Bull. He might not.” And then he leaves._ _

__Bull shakes his horns, trying to drop the creeping feeling that always scratches at the back of his mind any time that Cole vanishes like that. He doesn’t think the kid will actually use his magic or whatever on him-- he doesn’t think that anymore, at least. It’s just really uncomfortable._ _

__

__Regina and Dorian, in a joint tactical maneuver worthy of the Beresaad, are able to talk Josephine into ordering more books for the library. Rarer, older, more delicate books. They arrive packed into crates inside a covered wagon as if they were windowpanes made of Serault’s most fragile glass._ _

__They enlist Bull’s aid in carrying the boxes up to their new homes, and give him tea and cakes while they unpack. Regina moves around the library with her quick, short steps as Dorian slowly removes each book from the insulated crates._ _

__Bull’s seen Dorian’s hands mostly in battle, throwing fire and sketching glyphs in the air. Now, he has a chance to watch them at a different sort of work. His fingers are long and elegant, nails carefully filed and painted. He wears two gold rings on his left hand, one on his right. That one’s set with an opal, translucent red and small enough to miss at first, but it shimmers in the right light. Bull doesn’t think it’s magical, just pretty. He’d like to see it closer, investigate the setting, the cut of the gem, but he only gets glimpses in passing._ _

__Dorian handles the books carefully, brushes his fingertips across embossed and bejeweled covers as he checks the titles against the list in his hand._ _

__He keeps one book from the lot in his little alcove, on what looks like a reappropriated nightstand, among the notes and other tomes and the stringed instrument that Bull hasn’t quite been able to ask about yet. He treats all the books with care, but this one gets his particular attention, and Bull observes with interest._ _

__It’s old, that much is obvious. The pages are yellowed, the edges of the parchment uneven. Every page is covered in spidery handwriting in faded brown ink, with barely a space between each word or line. Even if he knew what language it was written in, Bull’s not sure he’d be able to read it without concentration and a magnifying glass._ _

__When the other books have been integrated into their new home, Dorian returns to this one, and turns each fragile page with reverence. He traces the lines with the tip of one long finger, mouthing the words slowly to himself. He barely even seems to notice that Bull is still there, nodding at him only once before ignoring him completely._ _

__Bull knows that Dorian’s pretty. He knows that Dorian’s shoulders are broad and his skin is smooth, that his teeth are straight and white when he smiles and his eyes wrinkle at the corners when he laughs. He knows that he wants to get close to Dorian, into his space, and feel the warmth of Dorian’s eyes on him, the softness of Dorian’s lips against his own. He knows that he wants to learn the parts of Dorian that he rarely shows._ _

__He knows the way Dorian’s eyes catch the light almost as much as the silver buckles on his robes, and that the mole under his eye is just _begging_ for Bull to cover it with his thumb when he turns Dorian’s face up. He knows the way that Dorian looks when he’s lost in thought, when he’s fighting, when he’s lifting blocks of stone twice as heavy as Bull with just a smirk and one long, steady breath, arms wreathed in magic up to his elbows._ _

__Dorian’s hands are sure and gentle on the old paper, and Bull knows that he wants those hands in his, against his skin. He wants to be touched the way Dorian’s touching this book. It’s not sexual (not _entirely_ ) but the way Dorian’s mouth curves like he’s forgotten that he’s smiling…_ _

__What the fuck. Bull’s jealous of a pile of paper and leather. He nods to Regina on his way down the stairs. Dorian doesn’t even notice him leaving._ _

__Bull doesn’t exactly avoid the library after that, but he breaks his habit of sitting up there while he waits for Leliana to have time to talk, or Dorian to have time to go to the tavern. Dorian’s busy with the new research Adaar has him chasing._ _

__He emerges with a theory about Corypheus's real identity, clearly pleased with himself. He accepts Adaar’s praise graciously, even if his pleasure at the drink she buys him is a bit more heartily expressed._ _

__Bull’s not sure that he’s imagining it when he thinks Dorian looks happiest to see him in the tavern. He knows he’s not imagining it when he comes through the gate with Adaar after a trip to the Fallow Mire and sees Dorian standing at the little window in his alcove. It probably is just wishful thinking that Dorian must have hurried down the stairs to meet them in the courtyard, or that Dorian’s smile seems particularly meant for him._ _

__

__He finds Dorian at Halamshiral, leaning on a railing in a garden with few torches. Adaar is dancing with a duchess, and Bull’s sympathetic, but he can only listen to Sera grumble for so long._ _

__The night is cool and scented by flowers, blissful after the sweaty, stuffy air indoors._ _

__“Aren’t you supposed to be maintaining a presence by the desserts?” Dorian doesn’t turn around._ _

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be making sure no one’s scheming in the side gardens?” He gets a dismissive wave of a hand in return. 

__“It reminds me of home,” Dorian says quietly, as Bull sets down the bottle of wine he’d brought. “But the fashion there is for jewel tones, this time of year. None of this pastel nonsense.”_ _

__“And the rudeness?”_ _

__Dorian laughs. “Always in fashion in Orlais.” He wraps a hand around the neck of the wine bottle, and his rings glitter before the cork pops smoothly out._ _

__“Neat trick,” Bull says, watching the way Dorian’s smirk curves around the lip of the bottle. His mustache is immaculate, and his eyes are lined in shimmering gold._ _

__“I live to entertain.” He hands the bottle to Bull, three swallows lighter._ _

__It’s a good vintage, full and sweet and not too dry, and the red stains Dorian’s lips as they drink._ _

__“Won’t the Boss miss you?” Bull asks when he hears a bell rung inside the ballroom, the tone of the music and conversation changing._ _

__Dorian laughs. “She told me to “enjoy myself” tonight, and not to worry about her. I think she thought she was giving me permission to seduce some chevalier.”_ _

__“Not your idea of a good time?”_ _

__“Maker, no! They’re always so concerned with their own manhood, they never pay attention to anyone else’s.” He licks at a drop of wine that fell on his thumb, and looks up at Bull through his eyelashes._ _

__“Lordlings, then?” Bull runs his body towards Dorian, leaning on the marble railing. “Fifth cousins four times removed from the Empress, inheritors of huge swaths of Orlesian countryside?”_ _

__“Even worse than chevaliers. You must know this.” Dorian grins, sharp and quick._ _

__“Who’re you seducing, then?” Bull leans closer. Dorian’s hand is near his, on the railing. There’s a breeze that ruffles his hair. Bull could reach up and fix it, could touch the line of Dorian’s face._ _

__“Oh, is that what we’re doing?” Dorian doesn’t quite manage to cover up the genuine question in his voice. “Seduction is, in my experience, much quicker than this. This is-- well, this is rather like what we already do, just with better wine and twice as many shirts.”_ _

__“Well,” Bull says, “maybe that was seduction, too.”_ _

__A crinkle forms between Dorian’s brow. “You don’t sleep with your friends under the Qun.”_ _

__That’s… not exactly what Bull had been hoping he’d say. “You’re not under the Qun, are you?”_ _

__“Certainly not!”_ _

__“Then what do you say to being under a Qunari?”_ _

Dorian chokes on his wine and sets the bottle down hard. “Do _not_ \--” 

__Bull grins. “Hey, I’m just saying. This can be easy. Just say the word.”_ _

__Dorian meets his gaze and deliberates. Bull watches him come to a decision, clear in the way his face slowly regains his dazzling smile. “Very well, The Iron Bull. Seduce me.”_ _

__Bull kisses him. It’s not a seduction or a conquest, it’s just wanting to kiss him right then, with the torchlight on his skin and that smile on his face._ _

__They go to Bull’s room through the back hallways, avoiding other guests and members of the Inquisition. Dorian locks the door behind them and takes his sweet time sucking Bull’s cock before he fucks him._ _

__And then, after Dorian’s washed in Bull’s tub and complained that he’s too short to fuck Bull standing up, he stays. He climbs back into Bull’s bed, not wearing a stitch, and goes to sleep. Cautiously, without any real reason for being cautious, Bull joins him._ _

__He’s there in the morning, and he comes back the next night, with a bottle of wine to celebrate the victory they had nothing to do with. They drink it, and Dorian laughs in a new way. Bull likes it._ _

__

__It’s raining. It’s always raining on the Storm Coast._ _

__He wants to look away, but he owes it to them. Adaar is the one who gave the order, but Bull’s the one who carried it out._ _

__Betrayal is an odd thing. He feels detached from himself, like he’s not the one watching the Venatori mages readying their spells, like it’s not his numb fingers holding the horn._ _

__Dreadnaughts don’t sink. It goes up in an instant, and he hopes it feels as quick as it looks. He hopes that the Sten at the oars feel nothing, and that the Vidassala at the helm sees nothing more than flame._ _

__His ears are still ringing with the blast, and he doesn’t hear Gatt’s footsteps as he walks away, though he must leave at some point._ _

__Bull stays where he is and watches. The ship burns for hours, floating on the tide, the fire too hot to be quenched by rain or sea. He wonders if the charred mast might wash up on the beaches of Par Vollen, and if the imekari who play in the sand will know what it is._ _

__

__The knock on his door does eventually come. “It’s open,” he calls. For a minute he thinks it might be Krem._ _

__“So it is.” Dorian closes the door behind him as he steps in. “May I lock it?”_ _

__Bull meets his eye across the room. “You’re drunk.”_ _

__“So I am.” Dorian shrugs, but doesn’t make a move- not to lock the door, not to approach Bull, not to leave. “But not terribly so, if you’re willing to take my word for it.”_ _

__“Alright,” Bull agrees. He shifts on his bed. He’d been reading, but he’s still wearing his boots. He feels uncharacteristically awkward. “What’s up?”_ _

__Dorian crosses the floor, leans his elbows on the footboard of Bull’s bed. “There are several things that I’d like to say to you,” he begins, “Questions I’d like to ask. And I’d like to-- please tell me the truth.”_ _

__Bull watches him. Nods._ _

__“Bound,” Dorian says finally. “And leashed. Am I-- do you still believe-- do Tal Vashoth stitch the mouths of their mages?”_ _

__They stare at each other. There’s some sort of dull knife twisting in Bull’s chest, the pounding of a loom in his mind._ _

He thinks he knows what Dorian expects him to say. He’s less sure what Dorian _wants_ him to say. And the truth… 

__Bull can’t meet his gaze any longer. “No,” he says to his hands. He tastes the truth in his mouth. This is what it means to be Tal Vashoth: the Qun asks, and he refuses. Too smart for his own good, he knew where his limits were and could not cross them blindly._ _

__Not if it means killing his men. Not if it means betraying Adaar’s trust. Not if it means hurting Dorian._ _

__He stares at his hands, wills his fingers to stop trembling. They do, slowly._ _

__“It was a cruel thing to ask. I’m sorry.” Dorian doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds too close._ _

__“No, I understand. You needed to know.” He hears his voice over the rushing of blood through his own veins, flat and far-off._ _

__“I could have waited. I should have.”_ _

__He feels the mattress shift as Dorian sits on the edge of it. He leans away. His chest is tight, like there’s an iron cage around his ribs._ _

__“I’m not going to touch you, Bull.” His voice is gentle and measured, almost-- almost tamassran. “Please breathe. A breath in…”_ _

__Bull hears the sucking sound of his own breath echoing Dorian’s._ _

__Dorian keeps breathing. Bull keeps his eye tightly shut, and he forces his body to obey._ _

__Slowly, he masters himself again, by allowing his hands to tremble. He focuses on his lungs, on his heartbeat._ _

__“Fear is something to be overcome,” Dorian says after a time, soft and slow like he’s reading aloud from a book. “Fear of pain, fear of failure. It’s not something to be nurtured or indulged. It’s to be used.”_ _

__“Who told you that?” His throat feels raw._ _

__“No one.” Dorian makes a sound sort of like laughter. “Perhaps everyone. Perhaps it’s just a lesson I taught myself along the way.”_ _

__“That’s fucked up, Dorian.”_ _

__“Undoubtedly.” He smooths the quilt under his hand._ _

__“That’s all you’re afraid of? If I’d collar you? You don’t care about me going mad, killing you, killing--”_ _

__“Oh, I certainly wouldn’t be pleased.” Dorian sounds almost unconcerned. “But I’ve killed dragons. You think one measly Tal Vashoth would be enough to take me down?”_ _

__Bull stares at him._ _

__“And I am a necromancer. If you did manage to kill me, I like to think I’d be able to repay the insult.”_ _

__“You’re not afraid of me killing you.”_ _

__“Compared to you shackling me, stripping me of my magic and caging my mind? Compared to you threading a needle, taking my voice, my free will, my control over myself?” He shrugs. It’s all a show, his composure. But he is telling the truth. “No.”_ _

__“It frightens me,” Bull tells him._ _

__“I can tell.” Dorian looks up at him, expression too gentle for the words he’s been saying. “Would you like me to leave?”_ _

Dorian _should_ leave, but that’s not the question he asked. “No,” he says, cautiously. “No, I want you to stay.” 

__Dorian reaches for him, then._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Did you notice the Qunlat word I made up? Come yell at me [ on tumblr!](http://acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com)
> 
> Many, many thanks to [ Uniqueinalltheworld](http://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld) for beta reading this <3 <3 <3 <3


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